


an interest in your wellbeing

by hydrochaeris



Series: ransom and holster 'verse [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sharing a Bed, i accidentally read all of omgcp in one night and the rest is history, this is rated t for profanity and more butt touching than i originally intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrochaeris/pseuds/hydrochaeris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s the problem: they read each other like fucking books, and there’s no secrets between them, except when there are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an interest in your wellbeing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SkinnyPlease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinnyPlease/gifts).



> ransom having the top bunk is totally a euphemism, but i wanted to write some wholesome holsom. why is that i only ever write oneshots with boys in beds? lord give me some original ideas. anyway, this is a messy and unbeta’d oneshot, and it just sort of fell out of my fingers, so sorry if it sucks and there’s an overuse of the words ‘bro,’ ‘dude,’ and ‘fucking.’ also this is gifted to two julias because the first one is also my soulmate (though in a far more platonic way than ransom and holster) and the second one livetexted me as she read this and came up with the title and i love them both. (edit: now also at http://yeahbees.tumblr.com/post/147248610070/an-interest-in-your-wellbeing!)

The first time they kiss, it’s full of vodka and no promises, and really more like tonsil hockey than anything else. All Ransom really remembers is him sticking his tongue down Holster’s throat, and it kind of going from there. They don’t talk about it not because it’s awkward or shameful—Jesus, living with Shitty for a little less than a year by then had completely kicked that mentality out of them. They don’t talk about it because they don’t need to. Because they’re RansomandHolster. And HolsterandRansom. And they both know what the other’s thinking: _Oh, okay. Okay. That happened. We were drunk. So if he won’t bring it up, I won’t bring it up._ And they’re both right, and neither of them do.

-

Obviously living in the fucking attic is a drafty, leaky nightmare. Holster gets pretty good at putting pans out—with Bitty’s permission—and dumping out the water when they inevitably overflow. But Ransom has the top bunk, and it’s worse for him, particularly since he keeps insisting the Haus ghosts are splashing him with rainwater in the middle of the night. Holster points out that it’s just a leak in the roof, and Ransom says, “Well I can’t sleep in a wet bed. I’m gonna get an extra mattress and crash on the floor.”

“Bro,” Holster says, “are you fucking kidding me?” When Ransom raises his eyebrows, he rolls his eyes. “Three years of friendship and we can’t share a bed? Shitty would be _so_ disappointed in us right now.”

“Oh, okay,” Ransom says, and they both don’t think about the last time that thought rolled through their minds. “It’s more like. Two and a half? Two and four fifths?”

“Yeah, but we’re soulmates,” Holster says, and jeez, he kind of looks hurt. “ _Bro_. We’re more drift compatible than like—Shitty and Lardo.”

“Bitty and Jack,” Ransom counters. “Fine, if you want me in your bed so bad just say so.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and Holster’s expression goes funny, but he lies down and pulls the bedcovers over himself before Ransom can decipher it.

“You joining me or what?”

“Do you always sleep with your head under the covers like that?”

“Fuck you, man, you’re the one who believes in ghosts.”

“It wasn’t a chirp,” Ransom says. He gets in next to Holster and has to pull the covers down a little, making Holster let out an indignant noise. “Chill, dude. I’m trying to make sure you don’t suffocate yourself in your sleep.”

“Thanks for your sudden interest in my wellbeing.”

“Don’t act like I don’t clean your glasses on a biweekly basis when you forget to, dickwit. I’m trying to not have to live without my drift partner.”

“So you admit we’re compatible!”

“Bro, when did I deny it?”

“…Shut up and go to sleep,  Rans.”

“He says as he can no longer think of a decent comeback.”

“It’s fucking one in the morning!”

“Two in the morning.”

“Just because I don’t have my glasses on and you can see the clock doesn’t mean you can correct me.”

“That made zero sense.”

“It’s fucking two in the morning.”

“Then sleep, asshole.”

Ransom is already snoring on his side of the tiny bed when Holster looks over at him. He’s seen him sleeping before, and now is a little too up close and blurry to get all the details, but he still has them memorized. The parabolic curve of Ransom’s jaw. The slight slant of his eyes. The turn of his nose. Holster breathes out silently and looks up at the bottom of the top bunk. The covers over his head thing had started when he was really little. It didn’t ever occur to him that he might die, or whatever. He’s survived this long, hasn’t he? Holster looks at Ransom again. His mouth is a little open. His snores aren’t so loud that Holster won’t sleep through them, and he’s not even drooling on the pillow, which is what happened the last time Holster had someone down here. There’s this weird almost paranoid feeling that he gets with his head exposed like this trying to sleep, but every time he looks at Ransom, he can’t help feeling safe.

“Stupid,” he mouths into the cool attic air, and shuts his eyes. The rhythm of Ransom’s snores is the strangest lullaby he’s ever had. It works like a fucking charm.

-

When he wakes, Ransom is pressed completely into Holster’s back, nearly head to toe. He opens his eyes staring directly into the nape of his best friend’s neck, where the hair is so irresistibly soft that he pokes his nose in it without really thinking.

“Jesus _fucking_ fuck!”

“’Gmorning, dude.”

“Your nose. Is. A fucking. Ice cube. _Dude_.”

“Yeah, yeah, just be glad I’m not pushing my morning wood in your thigh instead.”

Holster stiffens up at that—Ransom can feel his shoulders tighten where they’re pressed to his chest.

“Uncomfortable with sex jokes? Want me to toss in a ‘no homo’? What happened to not disappointing Shitty?” He knows he’s kind of rambling. Holster knows, too. That’s the problem: they read each other like fucking books, and there’s no secrets between them, except when there are.

Holster doesn’t say he’s not uncomfortable because there’s no point in lying. He only sort of shrugs his shoulders. “Wouldn’t have taken you for a big spoon, is all.”

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a little one,” Ransom says, and it’s stupid—this banter is _stupid_ —they are so clearly avoiding something and it just. It fucking sucks. Literally they are cuddling with each other and unable to be un-awkward enough to use their words. When did they both turn into Jack Zimmermann? Christ.

“What time is it?” Holster’s voice has gone back to that morning rasp now that he isn’t yelling at Ransom’s antics. Ransom reaches over him, plucks his glasses off the edge of the bed—they can’t afford a nightstand—and settles them over Holster’s nose and ears. Of all the things they do as best friends/soulmates/drift partners/whatever the fuck, by far the weirdest one is how Ransom has never once poked Holster in the eye, or cheek, or anywhere else with the glasses when he puts them on him. The first time Holster nearly protested until he realized that Ransom had actually done it. And it was one of those things, now—maybe because Ransom has spent so much time staring at Holster’s stupid face that he just knows where everything is and where his glasses should go and how to get them there—that works.

“8:38 in the morning on a Saturday. Damn, we college boys, getting six whole hours of sleep.”

“Holy shit. I have a fucking biology test on Monday.”

“Which Monday?”

“A week and two days from now, I forgot to make time for studying in my schedule today—”

Ransom is halfway out of bed when Holster pulls him back in, not even looking back at him to do so.

“Um, no. You are warm except for your nose and I wanna stay warm here. Also, the only thing on your schedule for today is ‘eat pie,’ which I know because I erased your one-hour studying session for today and added thirty minutes to the one tomorrow. You studied for like, six hours straight yesterday. That shit isn’t healthy. Today is your break day.”

“And you think I wanna spend it spooning your ass?” Ransom shoots back, which is really the weakest response ever, because that is exactly what he wants to do.

“Dude.” Holster rolls so they’re chest to chest, pulls Ransom’s head into his shoulder. “You have an interest in my wellbeing, don’t be surprised I have an interest in yours.”

“As long as you don’t fuck up my waves, man, they’re still growing out,” Ransom says into Holster’s ridiculously built shoulder.

It’s quiet for a moment except for their breathing.

“You remember freshman year?”

“Uh, I try not to. Why?”

“Do you remember, um. The. The, uh. Uh. Never mind.”

It hits Ransom then what they’ve been avoiding this entire fucking morning—these entire fucking years. The memory is fuzzy—only a few parts are clear. They are: Holster’s eyes locking with his, him opening Holster’s mouth none too gently with his tongue, their bodies pressed together in a way not entirely dissimilar to how they are now.

“Holst,” he says, more air than word. He knows that Holster wants him to raise his head, and look in his eyes, and push their mouths together again. He knows because they’re HolsterandRansom, RansomandHolster, and soulmates and best friends and drift partners and absolutely everything else in the world. And he also knows that he wants to give Holster everything he wants.

Ransom raises his head, and looks in Holster’s eyes, but it’s Holster who pushes their mouths together, the impatient little fucker. There’s no tongue this time—it’s dry and stale and tastes like the cragged dead skin on chapped lips and how your mouth tastes when you open it and yawn first thing in the morning, not to mention Ransom’s nose is in Holster’s cheek and it’s probably freezing his poor little brain. It would be so fucking gross, Ransom thinks, and he knows Holster is thinking the same thing, if it weren’t for the person with the mouth, and if it weren’t for the way that Holster hugs his arms around Ransom’s shoulders and pulls him in closertightertogethermore.

“An interest in my wellbeing,” he says into Holster’s mouth. “For a hockey-playing frat bro, you have the most pretentious way of phrasing shit.” Then he grabs Holster’s ass and squeezes for good measure. He doesn’t need to open his eyes from the kiss to do this—maybe because Ransom has spent so much time staring at Holster’s stupid ass that he just knows where everything is and where his hands should go and how to get them there—and Holster makes the most adorable high-pitched squeak. Not that Ransom thinks it’s adorable. It’s actually kind of hot.

“Dude,” he says, breaking the kiss and grinning when Holster tries to chase his lips. “You are so thirsty.”

“More like you’re really hot and I’ve been—inlovewithyouforever,” Holster says. His ears are bright pink. Ransom can’t believe this loser.

“You really think that running it all together as one word is gonna make it indecipherable?” Ransom shakes his head, attempting sternness even though the huge fucking grin has not left his mouth. “Telepathy, bro. You know what I’m thinking, I know what you’re thinking.”

“I, uh,” Holster says, and the flush is red and on his cheeks now. Ransom is so glad Holster has his glasses on because he knows Holster would’ve hated for this to happen if he couldn’t see Ransom. He knows—a lot of things. “You gonna say it back, then?”

Ransom feels his face heat up—at least embarrassment is good for his apparently cold nose. “I’m in love with you, asshole.”

“Cheat.”

“I’ve been in love with you forever,” Ransom says, seriously this time, and he knows what Holster is thinking: _his hand is still on my ass and I am so in love with him and he is so in love with me and we are so—_

He squeezes Holster’s ass again just to hear the squeak.

“You are _horrible_.”

“You’re still in love with me.”

“Are you doing it as some sort of twisted revenge because you claim the ghosts have done it so many times to you?”

“They’ve only done it once, thank you, no need to be jealous, and I’m doing it because of the noise you make.”

Holster’s blush is really cute, and he’s doing it because of that, too. But Ransom doesn’t need to tell him that.

“Dude.”

“Bro.”

“Drift partner.”

“Best friend.”

“Soulmate.”

Ransom glares. “How am I supposed to beat that one?”

“Asshole,” Holster suggests, and the resulting tickle fight is so, so worth it.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> like holster, i too have to sleep with the covers over my head. it’s been sixteen years and i’m not dead, so, score? also i don't know if the name for drift compatible people is drift partners but i wrote this between midnight and 1am this morning and deserve mercy. if y’all have a want/idea for a sequel (that doesn’t involve them in bed. because seriously, look at my other oneshots. i need a change), hmu in the comments, and if y’all just wanna talk omgcp headcanons and/or scream about stupid hockey bros, drop by [my tumblr](http://wholsomholsom.tumblr.com/ask) :)


End file.
